Every Cliche’ is Rooted in Truth

Oh the woe of a straving artist,

The people hear are to deaf to his parables,

But slip in his bleeding heart…

 

We all recovering alcoholic,

Looking for the next heartbreak,

So that he can once again feel in between,

Death and life,

The inferno and paradiso…

 

Is it possible to blindly love,

and to find the X on the map?

 

I’m looking for you Some One

And you are the only one

Made for me

 

Everyone else just occupies my time,

But in my heart there is always,

A room waiting for you…

 

I once thought you were,

just a lie that evaporated,

maybe because I held on too tight,

squeezing the dream between,

my forefinger and thumb…

 

But I know you’re real,

you might be miles and miles away,

but I know I love…

 

I don’t need to see your face,

know your name,

hear your giggle,

to know that,

I was made to love you…

Do It…Just Jump!

Don’t be a slave to the world today

Live a life that’s worthy living.

 

Don’t throw it away

 

If you don’t take chances

All you’ll ever know is loss

Isn’t taking the leap worth all the costs?

 

I remember that night where

My heart was running like a child

Lost in a department store

 

And I closed my eyes

And we met half way between

The stars and the sky

The earth and the moon

 

There are lips met

Like the water caressing the shore

 

Maybe love is cliché

But that night with our lips pressed

There I confessed

And we shared  communion

 

It was the North Star led me to your lips

And there I spoke my peace.

A Poem to a Ghost

Not tomorrow,

Not today,

Not ever…

You can’t put my love on lay away

So retract your disdain

And learn to retain

The innocent joy we once had

In a way this is a salutation

For this is the last letter

I’ll be sending you

Because having regrets

Means you didn’t learn anything

Take Off The Make Up

There are miracles everyday,
as cliche’ as is sounds
this is unspoken truth for both you and me

the space between breaths while weeping
truly defines the emptiness in a seconds time

The weeping tree that sprouts
and flourishes with proud leaves
will at Fall bleed its leaves
leaving them a mournful lake

for those who dare pass by will be drug
into its cold tender hands

as you slowly descend cling to your last breath
because it is said only those who
have true constitution to sink
further…further…and still further down

will see a stars whisper
that more endearing than a woman’s smile

just when you feel the last piece of your soul
is preparing to flee to other lost constellations
at the bottom of the lake you see
what wonder lies in the skies of your youth
and the beauty that lies in all your failures.

O The Wonder is Coming Back Again

Don’t lose heart even if it’s broken, because the clockmaker in his shack will strip the broken gears and replace what was once tarnished and mangled so that your heart may tick and tock rythmically to the sound of a love, and agian affection will flow through arteries into tanscendant ventricals and atriums.

Stop the Presses

At last this is one more revelation

Into the abyss of the unknown

Bring me close to caste me away

Cleanse the wounds with salt and vinegar

Just to teach me obedience

Solvents and submission

The inevitable disillusion of the ascribed suicide

An undying obsession of the ideal dream

Close enough to smells its passing fragrance

As I slowly stole away salutations

While I mix drinks with laments

Tongues caged in boxes

Writhing in argument

Silenced in absolution

Fail to Speak

And fail to be heard

And  the calm coma felt like a riot

Beethoven’s Last Breath

Silent symphonies playing harmonics tones

As the bodies rise like the Nile

Cigar ashes raining from the sky

Like ill fated omens interpreted by a superstitious eye

All the while melancholy miracles fail to reach the masses

How the notes drift gracefully into the air

Yet no one is alive enough to hear

Again and again they cry

But no one is listening to their deafening cry

Please stop, please help, please

But there is nothing but the static of their lives

The nonessential nuances of their successful life

There is a wonderful symphony waiting in the sky

Drowned out by their jaded lies

Newspaper Crowns

No rest for the wicked

So I sit and write these living texts

So that the dead’s eyes can see truth

Whether they receive or deny it is no concern of mine

They continue to dwell in the fiction they live

Pumping morphine into their veins

To sustain false dreams

But as sure as the seasons change

So shall their dreams cloth themselves in darkness

Turning once again into brooding nightmares

Their lives absent of life

Their body sustained by the consumption of dead things

I write so that I may bring them light

I am the wayward son

Look at my light and see what has been done

Unmistakable and undeniable

The crown I wear

A crown that I was never supposed to wear

Look and wake the dawn is coming

The chains of your grave are no more

A Raven Without the Crow

In this empty house

when no one else is present

something stirs within,

a frightening sense of terror.

Wondering what lies

on the other side of the front door.

It’s the quite that frightens

me the most;

I guess it’s because I’ve grown up hearing

the screams from tortured angel.

So much so

that it resembles a lullaby.

I try to lock Loneliness out

when I sleep,

praying I don’t hear him tapping on my door.

He is what I fear more than my mortality.

He is colder than death’s icy grip;

no remorse lies within his eyes.

He is uninvited,

but still I hear him

from time to time

rapping and tapping at my door.

A Betrayal of Innocents

Two children of  just a few years

stare out into the vast wilderness

from a car’s window view

Grandfather and grandchildren

embarking on a grand adventure

a day in the country

more happiness found there

than ever found in the city

there lies the villa  in the sleepy hills

where they spent their vacations

ever since they were delivered in to this world

today’s agenda

riding horses through

the virgin acres of land

Helps each up upon the beasts

twice their  size

He checks their bridals and saddles too

They ride for an hour no more

to a field that lays secluded

where secrets lie

He has packed a lunch for all three

upon his request they lay out the blanket

but from behind he unsheathes a revolver

two shots and the deed is done

for a father’s betrayal

he checks their bridals and saddles too

fires the gun once more

and lets them ride to their tomb